


Reaching Great Heights

by DiaryofaWriter



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiaryofaWriter/pseuds/DiaryofaWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD has recently been returned to active duty after a near-death experiences at the hands of Loki.  Unfortunately, on one of his evenings off, he finds himself at the receiving end of a drunk Clint Barton's text messages.  What Phil thought started as just a little drunk texting takes a sudden sharp turn in only a few minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alcohol and Phones Do Not Mix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silvergryphon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvergryphon/gifts).



> In case it's not clear, Clint's texts _look like this_ and Phil's _**look like this**_. Enjoy!

For once, Phil Coulson had a night all to himself. He had spent it pampering himself by actually managing to have a sit down meal--alone, as usual--and had just settled back with a good book and selected his favorite smooth jazz album to listen to. Frankly, he should have expected something to interrupt his evening.

The sound of his phone beeping loudly at his elbow nearly made Phil swear out loud. He was still in physical therapy because of his injuries during Loki's attack on the hellicarrier, and so he had asked Fury to limit how many after hours calls he received from the agency. So far both Hill and Fury had been happy to comply, just relieved that they had Coulson back on duty at all. If this text was from one of them, he was going to have some choice words for them both.

Reaching over with a sigh, Phil picked up his phone and arched an eyebrow when he saw that the message was actually from Clint Barton. Now why would Barton be messaging him at this hour? Phil did the best he could to ignore the way just seeing Barton's name on his phone made his heart thunder in his chest.

_Hey Cpulspn! Guess wat!_

"…He better not be drunk," Phil sighed in frustration.

_**Hello, Barton. What makes you text me at nearly eleven at night?** _

_Ypu're such an asp._

Phil blinked at the text in confusion for a moment before smiling slightly. Clearly Barton was having trouble with his autocorrect. The next text that flashed over the screen only confirmed this assumption.

_I meant ass_

_**I gathered that, Barton. So why are you texting me?** _

_You'll be glad to know, I just kicked Loki's asp!_

Fighting down the urge to snort loudly, Phil covered his mouth reflexively to hide his smile, even though there was no one to hide it from.

_Damnit…I meant asp_

_ASP_

_CLUCK YOU AUTOCORRECT!_

_*FUCK_

Still stifling his laughter, Phil had to put the phone aside for a moment to regain his composure. His hands were shaking too much for him to reply in any legible manner, and he didn't want to make Barton feel any worse about his spelling than he probably already did. When he could finally trust his hands to not shake while he typed out his reply, Phil lifted his phone from the side table and sent his reply.

_**And where exactly did you kick Loki's ass?** _

_Putside this bar I'm @. Clucker tried to walk away. I kicked his asp._

While he couldn't be certain how honest Clint was being about kicking Loki's ass, Phil couldn't deny how amusing it was to see all the misspelled words. Not that Clint was a particularly talented speller to begin with, but there was no way he would misspell any of his curse words if he were sober.

_**Are you drunk, Barton?** _

_No…_

_Maybe…litle bit…_

Shaking his head in amusement, Phil stood up slowly, his chest giving a slight twinge of pain in protest. With Clint drunk, it was usually best to try and snatch him out of the public's view before he committed any acts of vandalism or destruction of public property. The last thing either Phil or Clint needed was to be doing paperwork while Clint was suffering from a hangover.

_**I'll come and pick you up, then. Which bar are you at?** _

_U don't hav 2, Boss…_

On the contrary, Phil thought with a slight smile. If Clint was reduced to using numbers instead of words, then he _definitely_ had to go and find him before some idiot asked the infamous Hawkeye if he could play darts while drunk.

_**Just tell me which bar, Barton. That's an order.** _

As he shrugged on his jacket carefully, Phil could swear that he could hear Clint's sigh of exasperation through his next text message.

_The old tub dpwntown. The 1 with the killer dartbpard_

Ah. That would be the Old Lion's Pub. Phil hadn't spent much time there, since pubs weren't exactly his sort of place, but Clint was fond of it. He said it reminded him of the atmosphere of the circus where he had grown up, making it easy for him to blend in. There was also the fact that, like he mentioned in his text, there was a very good dartboard. The few times Phil had been there, he had seen Clint win a great deal of money betting on how many times he could hit the center of the board. No one ever seemed to catch on that Clint was a marksman by trade, so Clint kept making money. Tonight it seemed that there had been another visitor at the pub.

_**I'll be there in twenty. Wait outside.** _

_yeah, boss_

_…hey boss…why are my shoulders heavy?_

Phil had no idea what to make of that last text, so he didn't bother to answer it as he climbed into his car. SHIELD issue, armored and with tinted windows, it looked rather similar to any other sport sedan; all the better to blend in, as was SHIELD's main objective. Phil had to admit, it felt _good_ to be behind the wheel of a company car again, even if it was only to pick up his drunk asset. His evaluation that gave him back the right to drive any of SHIELD's cars had been only a few days ago, and he had passed it with flying colors. What the instructor didn't know was that Phil had been a nervous wreck during the entire evaluation, and had even escaped to the nearest restroom for a full ten minutes once he was informed of his success. 

It was not one of his prouder moments, hiding away in a bathroom stall as he tried to suppress the shaking in his hands. Not that anyone could really blame him for the anxiety. His psychiatrist had insisted that it was a miracle he didn't have more panic attacks after his near death experience in the bowels of the hellicarrier. Somehow, Phil couldn't find a great deal of comfort in such a thought. For one thing, just thinking that he should be in a much worse condition only triggered even more panic attacks; thankfully he had managed to overcome the worst of it. He had been signed off as sane and ready for duty by his psychiatrist, and diagnosed with "Acute Stress Reaction" rather than PTSD. Even with the knowledge that he wasn't just another stressed out veteran about to snap at any moment, he couldn't help feeling like the littlest thing would set him off.

Now here he was, going out of his way to pick up a drunk Clint Barton without any real reason to do so. Well…that was not entirely accurate. Since they had first been assigned to work with one another, Phil had always felt a sort of camaraderie with the assassin. They had even become friendly with one another as time went on. There was an easiness in their conversations that lent itself to playful banter and an almost flirtatious relationship. Somehow, when Phil hadn't been paying attention, his side of the relationship had gone from "almost" to "sincerely flirtatious." Who could really blame him, honestly? Clint Barton was a very handsome man, with a quick and charming smile, powerful arms from years of archery, and an ass that most models would kill for.

Not that Phil noticed Barton's ass. Because he didn't. At all.

"Maybe if you say it enough, Coulson, you'll actually believe it," he grumbled under his breath.

The drive to the pub didn't take too long, thankfully, and Phil soon found himself parking just in front of it. There wasn't any sign of Clint outside, which only made Phil feel nervous. If Barton wasn't outside, then he must be inside, and the last thing Phil needed tonight was having to break up a bar fight. Wincing to himself as he slipped out of the car, Phil rubbed at the sore spot just to the side of his heart and pulled a face. This was going to be a fun night.

Inside the pub, Phil leaned over the bar to ask the pub's owner if Clint was inside. If he was lucky, the assassin was just in the bathroom throwing up because of the alcohol.

"Oh, him," the owner scoffed lightly. "Yeah, he and some dark-haired fella were getting rough with one another, so I told 'em to take it out back before I threw 'em out myself. They haven't been back inside since then."

Now feeling very nervous, Phil made his way to the back exit of the pub, glancing around in concern. "Barton?" he called. "Are you out here?"

"Ugh," Clint groaned from somewhere further down the alley. "No' s'loud, boss…my ears're ringing like a fucking church."

Unable to prevent himself from feeling more than slightly relieved that Clint was in one piece and still near the pub, Phil moved towards the sound of the assassin's voice. "I hope you realize that tonight was supposed to be my night off for the week, Barton," he said blandly. "Because you owe me big time for coming out here to make sure you get home in one piece."

"Y'didn't hafta," Clint slurred as he stumbled out towards Phil.

Hurriedly moving forward to catch the assassin, Phil grunted in mingled discomfort and effort as he heaved Clint upright. While he might be a little shorter than Phil, Clint was much more solidly built, and as such very heavy. Though now there seemed to be an added weight that Phil couldn't really explain. Looking over Clint in concern, Phil felt his breath catch sharply as he looked over the archer's shoulders.

"Oh my God," he breathed weakly.

"What is it?" Clint asked blearily.

"It" was the fact that Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, was now sporting a very lovely and very real pair of brown and white wings that sprouted out from between his shoulder blades and were currently drooping down slightly. And Phil had actually been hoping to _avoid_ paperwork tonight.


	2. Adjustments Are Made

"Tell me again how this happened," Steve said slowly, clearly trying to sound pleasant and understanding, even though he was clearly losing patience. "And please start at the beginning."

Clint winced a little, knowing that the fearless leader of the Avengers must be really pissed off if he had to _pretend_ at being pleasant. The raging headache that currently pounded a lovely samba beat in his skull certainly didn't help Clint's ability to concentrate, though he did his best to push that aside for now. A soft hand pressed a cold washcloth to the base of his neck while its twin pressed a glass of water into his hand. Natasha Romanoff managed to not look _too_ amused as she signed for Clint to drain the glass of its contents, though there was a telltale sparkle of delight in her pale eyes.

_Head hurting?_ she signed, her fingers shaping the signals gracefully and smoothly. 

Clint had once tried to describe what it was like for him to "hear" people speaking ASL to him, and had found it an almost impossible task. Finally, he had told Natasha that watching her sign was like listening to someone like Audrey Hepburn speak; refined, elegant, and smooth. Naturally, Nat's curiosity had been piqued at this and she demanded to know what other people "sounded" like in ASL to him. With no other option than to give in, Clint told her that his own signing was like listening to someone with a Southern drawl who dropped a lot of letters and slurred so much that it almost wasn't English to those who were unused to the accent. Coulson's "accent" was crisp and clean, like some really stuffy British person reading Shakespeare. For some reason, that last comparison had amused Natasha immensely.

_Back and head_ Clint signed back, making a face. _Cap looks mad._

Natasha's shoulders rolled up in a shrug, the movement very catlike. _Just talk to him about what happened._

The sudden urge to try and throttle the Black Widow gripped Clint as he glared at the redheaded woman. Setting his jaw for a moment, he turned his attention back to Steve. "I went to the pub to get a drink or two. Nothing outta the ordinary, Cap. I didn't expect anything to really happen. Then this pale guy with dark hair walked in and I recognized him as Loki."

Steve's face twitched, and Clint could swear that he could see something close to actual rage in the captain's expression.

"And then?" Steve prompted stiffly.

"Well, I asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing around here. He told me that he was just getting a drink. And I punched him."

Natasha snorted loudly at this and hastily covered her mouth to hide her smile. "Sorry, Captain," she murmured behind her hand, her eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth. "Keep going."

Once more the urge to throttle Natasha flashed through Clint. Just out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the wings that he had suddenly sprouted twitching as though it would indeed move to strangle the Black Widow. Hastily, he focused on keeping the wings in place, gritting his teeth a little.

"I punched him and that was basically it. The barkeep told us to take it outside, so we did. He said something about me earning the wrath of a god or some shit like that, and next thing I knew, my back felt heavy and I felt drunk. That was when I texted Coulson."

Glancing over at Coulson, Clint felt his chest tighten a little, and his wings began to stir again. With a force of will, he clenched his hands into fists and did his best to keep the wings from moving. He really needed to learn how to control those damn things, if he could.

"So you think that Loki must have given you these?" Steve asked, indicating Clint's wings.

"Only explanation that really makes sense, Cap," Clint shrugged, glancing over his shoulder as he felt the wings shift with his muscles. Damn, that felt weird.

"Great," Steve sighed. "And Thor's still in Asgard, so we can't ask him."

"What about Tony or Bruce?" Natasha asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Bruce is off God knows where, and Tony won't leave his lab unless we throw a grenade in there," Steve retorted. "And even then, it's questionable."

"Frankly, I don't know how much help either of them could be," Coulson said, speaking up for the first time since he had found Clint behind the pub. "Neither Stark nor Banner are experts in genetics."

_Well, that's not discouraging at all,_ Clint thought to himself with a heavy sigh. The wings shifted again, the soft feathers brushing against his bare back. Thankfully Clint wasn't a very ticklish person, so he managed to avoid snickering like a little kid. Barely.

"Is there anyone we could find who can get rid of them?" Natasha asked, resting a hand on Clint's shoulder.

"I can certainly start asking around," Coulson shrugged. "I don't promise that it will be a _successful_ search, of course, but I'll use my connections to try and find a solution."

Leaning into Natasha's touch ever so slightly, taking some comfort from the feeling of a friend who cared about his situation, even though she wasn't above mocking his pain. The idea of being stuck like this, possibly forever, was definitely a sobering one. While he couldn't deny that he thought they were certainly very lovely to _look_ at, they also weighed a lot more than Clint had anticipated, and already his back was feeling the strain of them. He probably wouldn't be able to fly with them, given the fact that his very human musculature was simply not made to handle powering two wings _and_ keeping his very solid bones airborne. If anything, these wings would only get in the way of his usual work. They were enormous, and no doubt very delicate. 

Oh, and there was the little fact that they were created by _frigging Loki_. For all they knew, the wings would give out on him while he was in the air--that was assuming he could even _get_ into the air to begin with--or something equally deadly.

Still, it was kind of cool to think of having wings at all. They were definitely _fitting_ , given his codename.

"And until we find out one way or another?" Clint asked in a low voice.

The others were all silent for several moments. He didn't look up to see their expressions, but he could guess that Natasha's expression was set with determination and Coulson was unreadable as ever. Natasha's hand on his shoulder tightened slightly, her fingertips digging into his skin and her entire palm shaking. Her touch made his wings stir again, one moving slightly to unfurl behind her. That simple movement must have surprised Steve, as the captain drew in a sharp breath.

"Sorry," Clint grumbled, flinching in embarrassment as he did his best to tuck the wing back behind him again. "I'll just head to my rooms, since I'm not on duty or anything."

"I'm not on duty either," Natasha said quietly, the unasked question of _do you want company_ hanging in the air between them.

"You should stay here with Coulson and Steve to try and work things out," Clint replied in a low voice, reaching up to squeeze the redhead's hand lightly. "But thanks."

Natasha met his gaze evenly, as though she was trying to read his mind. "All right," she finally said in a low voice, smiling slightly. _Call if you need me,_ she signed, giving his shoulder one last squeeze before stepping away.

Nodding to his friend, Clint squeezed her hand back and stood up, his wingtips brushing against the metal of the examination table he had been sitting on top of. He could feel the smoothness of the table as the feathers slowly slid over it, which was all kinds of disturbing. Forcing himself to not shudder at the strange sensation, Clint began to tug on his shirt before he remembered that he couldn't fit the wings anywhere in his shirt now.

As though he saw the predicament at the same moment, Coulson cleared his throat a little. "I'll see to it that SHIELD provides you with altered clothes, Barton," he said quietly. "If that's all right with you, of course."

All right? That would be a frigging miracle. Thankfully Clint managed to not make a fool of himself by saying so and just flashed a weaker version of his usual grin at the older agent. "Sure, Boss," he shrugged. "No need to give Fury a headache because I've started molting, though."

Even Clint could tell that the joke had fallen sadly flat as no one looked like laughing. Fighting down the growing sense of panic that was welling up inside of his chest, Clint tucked his shirt under his arm and nodded to the others before making his way out of the room. 

****************

Watching Clint hurry out of the room, Phil turned to look at Natasha and Steve who were already in the middle of an intense discussion about what should be done now that Clint had wings. They kept their voices low, no doubt to avoid having Clint overhear them if he decided to hide out in the vents as he was wont to do, so Phil had to strain to catch anything they said.

"We have to report this to Fury, of course," Steve was muttering, looking very upset by this turn of events. "But he'll probably order Clint off duty."

"Then Fury will have to answer to me for that," Natasha retorted, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Clint belongs with the team, Captain. You know that we won't perform as well without him there to keep an eye on things from above."

Steve's expression was torn as he glanced at the door Clint had closed behind him, a furrow appearing in the middle of his forehead as he took a shaky breath. "I know, Natasha," he sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping with the weight of this decision. "But we still have to report this. We can't exactly keep the wings a _secret_ …"

Phil sighed and ran a hand through his receding hair, frowning to himself. Clint couldn't be pulled out of the Avengers because of the wings. For one thing, they didn't know if they would be anything beyond just a heavy nuisance on his back. Then again, they also did not know if they weren't dangerous in some way or another. It was enough to give Phil a headache. Rubbing at his temple, Phil shook his head and glanced at Natasha and Steve again. Natasha seemed to sense his gaze this time and turned her head slightly to look back at him.

_You okay?_ she signed at him discreetly.

Learning ASL from Clint had definitely been one of Phil's better ideas. He had learned that Clint was deaf in one ear not long after he was assigned as handler to the archer, and rather than treat Barton like he was impaired, he had asked that Clint teach him ASL. The simple gesture had delighted Barton, who taught Phil quickly and eagerly. When Natasha had been brought in by Clint only a few years later, she had tutored Clint in his horrific Russian in exchange for learning ASL as well. Now, the three of the used it all the time. It had proven to be very useful during covert operations, as well as during arguments with other members of the Avengers team.

_Better than Barton,_ Phil replied, his fingers moving concisely. _He's taking this hard._

_I noticed._ If anyone could be sarcastic with just movements of their fingers, it was Natasha Romanoff. _You should give him time. Just let him relax._

Phil was almost entirely certain that the last thing on Clint's mind right now was relaxing, but he didn't bother to point this out to Natasha. She was probably just as aware of the fact as he was, if not more so. While Phil and Clint bantered and might even almost flirt with one another on a regular basis, Phil was almost certain that Natasha and Clint had a physical relationship of some sort. Not that he was _jealous_ , of course; because he wasn't. It was just very hard to miss the level of physical contact between the two assassins.

_I'll go see about those clothes for Clint,_ was all Phil signed at Natasha, making his way out of the room slowly. This was certainly going to take a lot of adjusting.


	3. Early Bird Gets the Worm

As he shifted in his sleep, Clint felt something slide over his bare back. It was light enough to almost tickle, but there was still some weight behind the touch. In an instant, Clint was on his feet, dropping into a fighting stance and looking around for the source of the contact on his skin. No one else was in the room, but the light touch along his back continued. Glancing over his shoulder, Clint slowly relaxed when he spotted the wings.

"Oh," he mumbled with a huff. "Forgot about you two."

The wings unfurled, almost as though they were responding to his comment. Clint had to admit, no matter how heavy and irritating they might be for him, the wings were very impressive to look at. For one thing, the wingspan was enormous, since they were essentially regular wings expanded to fit on a human frame. They were also very pretty to look at. Speckles of brown littered the underside of the wings with off-white as the main color, while on the upper side of the wings the white was less prevalent. 

"Guess I'm stuck with you for a while, huh?" Clint mused, glancing at the wings with a sigh. "This should be fun."

Standing up straighter, Clint stretched his arms over his head in an attempt to loosen the muscles in his shoulders. With the added weight of the wings, he could now feel a lot more tension in his upper back than he had before. Of course, given the strain he put on his shoulders with archery, it wasn't too uncomfortable for him. He would just have to adapt to the new weight and learn how to better carry it so his back didn't grow stiff. That and he would have to get used to clothing with an enormous hole in the back that would allow his wings freedom of movement. Clint hoped that Phil had been able to get new shirts for him without raising too many questions among the agents of SHIELD.

After tugging on a fresh pair of jeans, Clint moved away from the dresser, doing his best to ignore the fact that he now felt very naked without a shirt. Thankfully there wasn't anyone else in the halls when he stepped out, otherwise he would have felt really ridiculous. Another thing to be thankful for was the fact that, as large as the wings were, they didn't quite drag along the floor of the hall. Tony would never forgive Clint if he started finding feathers around the tower, if only because it was more work for his bots.

"Early bird gets the worm," Natasha's rich voice said teasingly behind Clint.

"You are getting way too much enjoyment out of this, Tasha," Clint grumbled, turning to face the redhead, his wings ruffling slightly.

"One of us has to look on the bright side of this," she retorted, crossing her arms with a smirk. "Besides, I've been wanting to make bird jokes around you for _years_ , and now I have an excuse to."

 _Bite me,_ Clint signed at her, rolling his eyes.

"You're so cute first thing in the morning," Natasha laughed, coming over to muss his hair lightly. "Oh, and Coulson was looking for you just a little bit ago."

"He was?" Clint asked, arching an eyebrow and batting her hand away from his hair. "About what?"

"I'd hope it's about getting you some shirts," the redheaded assassin deadpanned, arching an eyebrow pointedly.

Crossing his arms as well, Clint refused to let Natasha see how uncomfortable the jab had made him. He had nothing to be ashamed of, after all; on top of that, Natasha had seen him in a lot less clothing, so if she was suddenly feeling modest, that was her problem.

"Where exactly is Coulson?" he asked, rolling his eyes at Natasha.

"Probably in the office he set up on his floor of the tower," Natasha replied, shrugging lightly. "I'll be in the gym if you want to spar after Coulson gets you all dressed up."

This time Clint couldn't prevent the blush that crossed his cheeks. There were times when he really thought that Natasha knew him too well, and this was one of them. "Shut up," he grumbled under his breath as he moved past her through the hallway.

"I'm sure Coulson'd love to shut you up," Natasha sneered with a laugh.

Clint was really going to have to kill Natasha one of these days if she kept this up. So what if he had a crush on his handler? He'd never act on it, and Coulson wouldn't either, even if he _did_ feel the same, which Clint was almost one hundred percent sure he didn't. Sure, they might flirt a little while they bantered, but that didn't mean anything. It wasn't like Clint didn't flirt with other agents at SHIELD, which he did, or that Coulson only "flirted" with Clint. 

Oh, wait…

 _That doesn't mean anything,_ Clint told himself firmly. _Just because the guy doesn't ever have any flirtatious conversations when you're around doesn't mean that you're the only person he enjoys flirting with._

For a spy, Clint was rather bad at lying to himself.

Doing his best to push thoughts of "what if" and "maybe" aside, Clint slipped into the elevator and pressed the button for the floor Tony had set aside for Coulson. 

After things had settled down somewhat following the Chitauri attack on New York, Stark had set to work on rebuilding the Stark Tower, though he had renamed it "Avenger Tower" and carefully designed the place to suit each and every member of the Avengers. Each member of the group had a floor that was entirely theirs with all of the amenities they could ask for. Steve had a full art studio, Bruce had a working physics lab, Tony had enough stuff to tinker with until the end of time, Natasha had a gymnastics area, and Clint had an archery range. When Coulson's survival had been made known to the team, Tony had been quick to create a bureaucrat's ideal apartment/office as well as a gun range.

"The whole team belongs here," Stark had said when Coulson asked what the floor was for.

That was the only time Clint had ever seen Phil Coulson blush over anything, though he'd been quick to thank Tony for his generosity. Now everyone was starting to settle in more comfortably, even though not every member of the team was always at the tower. Thor was the one who was most often away, as he had duties on Asgard and Jane Foster to visit when he was on Earth. Bruce was away nearly as often, mostly because he'd been on the run for nearly seven years and just wasn't used to being in a stable situation. Natasha and Clint would often have to be away as well, since their first loyalties were to SHIELD, but they had both given up the small apartments they had outside the tower in favor of keeping Tony happy.

Stepping out of the elevator, Clint looked around at the apartment that had been built for Coulson. He hadn't really had a lot of reasons to be in this part of the tower since Coulson miraculously came back from the dead, so it was a little odd to see. The entire floor was very clean and organized with sleek, modern furniture. There were very few pictures, and none of them were of Coulson or his family. A few plants decorated the room, but on closer inspection they were actually plastic. For some reason, that really amused Clint.

"What is so funny, Barton?"

Turning sharply to see Coulson, Clint almost fell over when his wings didn't quite go the way he wanted them to, their weight dragging his back down. "Ack!" he yelped, though he would later deny that he had made any such sound. "Oh, hi boss."

Coulson twitched a little, as though he wanted to steady Clint, but the movement was so subtle that Clint was sure he'd been mistaken. 

"Need a little help there?" Coulson asked with an arch of his eyebrow.

"Still adjusting, that's all," Clint replied, making a face. "These things are heavier than they look."

It really wasn't fair that Clint now had an _excuse_ to walk around without a shirt, Phil thought to himself with an internal sigh. It was especially unfair to Phil himself, as he found himself face to face with a bare-chested Clint Barton. His tanned skin was stretched over taught muscles that shifted with every minute movement, and with the wings, there were a lot more of said minute movements. His arms were crossed over his chest, and Phil found that he had to force himself to _not_ watch the way Clint's biceps moved.

"I am sorry to hear that," Phil said when he remembered that Clint had actually said something. "I managed to find you some altered clothing and even arranged for your costume to be altered."

"Thanks, Boss," Clint nodded. "Would you happen to have one on hand?"

 _But that would be counterproductive_ , Phil thought to himself. Realizing what he had just thought, he was suddenly very grateful that no one living in the tower was a telepath of any kind. "Yes, I do," he managed to say out loud. "Just give me a moment and I'll get you the ones that could be made on short notice."

Clint nodded, a weak smile crossing his lips. "Thanks, Boss," he said sincerely. "At least you're not making jokes about all this."

"Ah," Phil smiled wryly. "So you did run into Natasha."

"Apparently I'm an early bird and there's a worm somewhere," Clint replied, shrugging slightly, his wings fluttering slightly as he did so. "I wonder what she was referring to when she said that."

 _There couldn't be anything in Clint's tone that was seductive,_ Phil thought to himself. _Because that would be ridiculous. There is no reason for him to be seducing or flirting with me._

The shirts in question had been made of a special material that would not only allow the wings through a hole in the back, but also would allow the base of the wings freedom of movement. Most of them were in Clint's preferred shade of purple or black, though there were some in white or blue to allow for some variety. Bringing them out to Clint, Phil set the folded shirts down on the glass coffee table that was set in the center of the room.

"I've been told these should be rather comfortable for you, even with the wings," he said, standing up and meeting Clint's eyes.

Clint nodded, picking up the top shirt and examining it closely. The shirt was made in such a way that it wouldn't have to be pulled on over his head, but instead was zipped up the back with two openings for the base of the wings. It would be better than nothing, but it looked like he would have to have someone to help him actually put the damn thing on to begin with. Looking over at Coulson, Clint noticed the way his handler had clenched his fingers into fists, as though trying to keep himself from doing something stupid. That was interesting.

"They should be just fine, boss, thanks," Clint nodded, smiling wryly at Coulson. "Though they look a little complicated. Mind giving me a hand?"

This was hell, Phil was sure of it. Being alone in a room with his very handsome asset who was currently half naked, and having to help him put on a shirt. If there was a God, then Phil wondered what exactly he had done to upset Him so much that God was punishing him so much. Of course, this might be the one chance he had to touch Clint Barton in a non-professional manner.

"If you're sure," Phil said slowly, not wanting to overstep himself.

"Well, I don't really see anyone else here," Clint replied, arching an eyebrow teasingly. "So unless you want me to go wandering through the tower without a shirt on…"

While Phil certainly wouldn't _mind_ having a shirtless Clint wandering through the tower, but he doubted that anyone else besides Natasha would be appreciative of the spectacle. His ears now feeling very warm, Phil cleared his throat nervously.

"All right, then. I'll help."

Flashing a smug grin at Coulson, Clint turned his back to the other man, his wings shifted and unfurled slightly to prevent him from nearly toppling over again. Unfortunately for Phil, the view from the back was just as good as the view of the front. Powerful shoulder muscles framed the base of the wings, the tension that the added weight of the wings produced was clearly visible in the way his shoulders were shaking slightly. As though they could sense Phil's gaze, the powerful wings stretched out slowly, the feathers shifting and rustling quietly.

"They're very impressive," Phil said quietly.

"I guess," Clint shrugged, his muscles and the wings rippling with the movement as he slipped his arms into the sleeves of the shirt. "Pain in the ass, though."

"I'll have to take your word for that."

Reaching forward, Phil took hold of the back of the shirt and eased it over Clint's shoulders. He tried--he honestly tried--to not run his hand over any of Clint's skin, but there was only so much he could do about that. A shudder ran through Phil as he felt the warmth of Clint's skin through the fabric of the shirt, and he could swear that he saw Clint's back shiver slightly as well. It turned out that the shirts were indeed rather complicated, as there were three zippers that ensured the fabric was settled comfortably around the base of the wings. Once he had ensured that each zipper was properly done up, Phil stepped back and tucked his hands into his pockets to hide how much they were shaking.

"There you go," he said quietly.

Glancing over his shoulder at Coulson, Clint stretched out his wings to test the way the fabric was settled around them. Behind him he could hear Coulson take a deep breath, though whether it was in shock or something else he couldn't tell. The shirt was comfortable enough, and if the others were made of the same stuff, then he wouldn't have any problems with them either.

"Sits well," he commented. "Thanks again, boss. I'll have to ask you to help me with the rest of these in the future, I guess."

Phil bit back a groan as he nodded, doing his best to not make a complete fool of himself. "If it will help you adjust faster…"

Silence stretched out between the two of them for several moments before Clint cleared his throat and grabbed the pile of shirts that Coulson had presented him with. "Well…yeah. I guess I'll have to go put these away."

"Right," Phil coughed weakly. "I'll be here, doing paperwork."

"As always," Clint teased halfheartedly, flashing a slight smile at Coulson. "I'll talk to you later, boss."

Once Clint was out of the room, Phil sat down at his desk and rested his forehead against his hand. That archer was going to be the death of him.


End file.
